


Slivers Under My Skin

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [14]
Category: Flashpoint, The Listener (TV)
Genre: Author can't write, Bomb Injury, Door Charge, Drabble, Episode: s03e08, Explosions, Hurt Spike, I'm Sorry, Minor Injuries, Or Didn't Try, Other, Shrapnel - Freeform, Spike Whump, Stitches, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Whoever set up the door charge didn’t know the first thing about how to make a powerful bomb,” Spike explained, though the nurse didn’t seem to be listening and Sam looked up from his phone with an exasperated expression. “I mean, they didn’t even—,”<br/>“Spike,” Greg said loudly as he walked in—papers firmly in his grasp, “Here, sign these,” He nodded at the papers, handing them over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slivers Under My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a couple days ago, but I hated it so I didn't post it. I tried to fix what I didn't like (ha, didn't work) but here's what I got, anyway. This is inspired by the Flashpoint/The Listener crossover from that one episode (s03e08--Listener) where Spike's getting his arm fixed (for a lack of a better word) from a door charge. I just loved the gifs sets of it on Tumblr, so I wanted to write something inspired by that.   
> Please, please leave feedback (yes, you people giving guest kudos--come out of the shadows! I don't bite; I swear!) because it makes me happy and a happy author writes more and when an author writes more the readers get more to read and when the readers have more to read they are (usually) happier! See, it's a circle! Thank you for everyone who has given kudos *hug* and comments *bear hug attack* because it's truly what keeps me writing. It's wonderful motivation, and I love knowing that I'm making people happy with my writing. Have a wonderful day!
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint nor The Listener nor the characters and I don't make a profit. However, it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thank you!

Analyzing the wires carefully, Spike tore away more of the cardboard box with tight, precise cuts of his knife and traced his eyes over the C4. There was no chatter on the radio, and the perimeter was so far back that he couldn’t even hear the rumbling of voices, despite the fact that the bomb had been placed just behind the desk at the entrance to the building.

Spike pulled away from the large device, pulling out his PDA, and scanned the schematics that the team had sent. He traced the detonator wires with his gaze, grabbing his cutters from the kit behind him. They felt light in his skilled hands, the familiar weight comforting as he leaned forward a bit and set the metal against the colorful wire. The blade broke through with no problem, and nothing exploded so a little tension eased from Spike’s shoulders as he moved onto the next line.

They all fell apart with the same anticlimactic sound, and Spike leaned back and put the clippers back in the case.

“Bomb disabled,” Spike said into the radio, eyeing the now inactive weapon as he slipped the tactical knife back into its sheath. He was about to pick up the bomb and take it to the disposal truck, go get pats on the back from his teammates as they stood near the SUVs, but a figure appeared on the floor above and a shot hit the floor in warning.

“SRU, stop!” The bomb tech barked, taking off for the stairs while pulling his side arm out, and he clattered up the steps as the layout of the building rolled out before his eyes. “Found the other suspect, second floor,” he said, voice still steady, “in pursuit.”

“Coming, Spike!” Sam yelled, and the bomb tech heard Wordy curse as the man raced to catch up with the blonde, and he heard the front doors whip open as he bolted out of the stairwell.

He saw the figure duck around a corner, and Spike sprinted after her shouting for him to stop. His eyes took in everything, the clothes, the cut of the woman’s hair, and spurred himself faster. The woman went through a doorway, and Spike saw something in her hand that wasn’t a gun, but that was as far as his thoughts got.

The air cracked with the shockwave, tremors riding over his skin, and Spike closed his eyes and turned his body away from the blast, trying to get as low to the ground as possible. It wasn’t that bad; he’d been thrown by worse, but his skull connected with the floor painfully and his forearm was burning.

The lady was gone, disappearing into the smoke, and Spike surged drunkenly to his feet as he took off again. He ignored the pain, ignored the shock, and simply focused on the turns and hallways.

“Spike, report!” Greg shouted into the radio, the rest of the team falling silent as they let their sergeant take charge.

“Door charge,” Spike panted back into his earpiece, “no harm.” At least, he didn’t think he was hurt—yeah, a little sore, but this wasn’t a powerful explosion, it was amateur at best. It wasn’t like the bomb he’d disabled in the entrance; that one was made for killing. This was a distraction, a back-up plan.

The subject didn’t get far, lost in the maze of the upper floor and panicked, so he took her to the ground with a grunt. She twisted and kicked, muscles jumping under her skin, but Spike got her arms pinned cuffed them behind her back.

“Subject contained,” He said, and he heard the footsteps behind him as Sam and Wordy ran in.

“I thought you said no harm,” Sam growled angrily, and Wordy hauled the woman off the ground and walked with her back towards the stairs. “You’re bleeding.”

Spike looked down, confused, and saw the blood on his hand. Then he saw the pocket-marked slivers on his sleeve, and the pain in his arm made sense.

“Oh,” He said, blushing as Sam stood there—arms crossed over his chest—glaring, “I guess I didn’t realize…” Spike waved his arm in the air instead of continuing, and Sam paled as a few drops of blood slipped from his lover’s fingers.

“Stop!” Sam said in a raspy voice, “You’re going to hurt yourself more.”

“I’m fine,” Spike told him, swiveling on his heel and walking towards where he’d came from, “I need to sweep the rest of the building for explosives—,”

“You need to go get checked out,” Sam walked up behind him, hands on his shoulders, and pushed him demandingly towards the stairs. “Hey boss, is that ambulance still here?”

“Yeah, it is,” Greg said back to the younger sniper, and the team was hovering nervously as the two men exited the building. The paramedic was standing a few feet away from them, and Spike tried to pull back his sleeve to look at the damage but Sam swatted his hand away.

“Can you look him over?” Sam asked, handing the team’s bomb tech to the medic, and sharing an annoyed look with his two older lovers.

The paramedic pulled Spike over to the ambulance, to the man’s displeasure, and his three lovers followed. Slowly rolling the Italian’s sleeve up, the paramedic eyed the damage before patting the gurney behind him with a sigh.

“Hop up, Scarlatti. Got to take you to the hospital to get these removed—we can’t know how deep they went, so you’ll need an x-ray and some stitches.”

“But it was just a door charge,” Spike pouted, “Can’t you take out the shrapnel here?”

“And risk missing some and you getting an infection?” The paramedic deadpanned back, lips pursed with humor in his eyes. “Now get on the gurney.” Then the man turned to the three men standing around, “One of you can ride with him, if you’d like.”

“Greg, go,” Ed lightly pushed the negotiator, “Me and Sam will help wrap this up and meet you two there.”

The sergeant didn’t complain, just climbing in next to Spike—who was still pouting and eyeing his own wounds—as the paramedic shut the door.

 

* * *

 

Spike sat, swinging his legs, on the edge of the hospital bed and letting the nurse wrap a bandage over his entire forearm. Sam was lounging in one of the stiff-backed chairs, texting the team to let them know everything was fine now, and Ed and Greg had gone to track down Spike’s discharge forms.

“Just make sure you change that bandage twice a day for a week.” The nurse ordered lightly, “You were lucky none of the shrapnel got stuck too deep.”

“Whoever set up the door charge didn’t know the first thing about how to make a powerful bomb,” Spike explained, though the nurse didn’t seem to be listening and Sam looked up from his phone with an exasperated expression. “I mean, they didn’t even—,”

“Spike,” Greg said loudly as he walked in—papers firmly in his grasp, “Here, sign these,” He nodded at the papers, handing them over.

The bomb tech scribbled his name on the papers before handing them to the nurse as she gave him, in return, a package of gauze.

“Have a good day, Officer Scarlatti,” She said, leaving the four men and padding down the hallway after saying that he was free to leave.

Ed shook his head at the huge swath of white covering Spike’s skin, and slapped him lightly on the back with a sigh.

“What?” Spike asked, following the three men as they led the way to the car, “It was only shrapnel!”

Ed just shook his head again.


End file.
